


In the City of the Dead

by Merkwerkee



Category: JourneyQuest
Genre: I just needed more Carrow okay and I couldnt find any so I made some, Oneshot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-22
Updated: 2017-04-22
Packaged: 2018-10-22 12:18:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 877
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10696869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Merkwerkee/pseuds/Merkwerkee
Summary: What was Carrow feeling after losing an arm?





	In the City of the Dead

"Light of Viaeris, light of Truth, light of Heaven! SHINE!"  
The words were familiar, almost instinctive; it was far from the first time Carrow had called upon the light to banish some Shadowborn monster or another. He had been a cleric for many years, and brought Viaeris' Light to many a darkened place. Casting the light had always left him with warm with the satisfaction of righteousness, with the knowledge that he was extending the love and forgiveness of his god to those most in need of it.

Not so this time; the Shadow vanished in the light that poured forth from his holy symbol, but his hand felt as if he had gripped a burning log from the center of the hearth. It was one of the few things he had truly felt since Perf's spell had done its damage, and the feeling was spreading down his arm. He kept his grip through sheer force of will, but as the feeling intensified he couldn't help a howl of pain. It felt as though he held the sun itself in his grip, and its fire burned his arm until finally his arm disintegrated in a burst of light and flame.

The pain was enough to drive him to his knees in almost a mockery of prayer. He clutched the charred stump of his arm, his howl giving way to pained whimpers as he forced air back into his lungs in tiny bursts. He didn't feel the need for air as he had before, and no tears would flow down his face no matter how he ached for them. That, as much as the pain, had him shaking like a leaf in a hurricane where he knelt on the ground.

" _Why._ " The question fell from his lips in a whisper, gossamer as spider-silk and as ephemeral as a bubble. Viaeris was a loving and forgiving god; Carrow had done his work for decades. Why would Viaeris withdraw now, when Carrow needed him the most? Surely Viaeris, in his love and mercy, could see that Carrow was faithful still? That his current existence was no fault of his own? He whispered a prayer, a simple prayer that had so often before brought comfort; now, the silence and cold were all that answered.

The pain ebbed as his stump cooled, yet he could not force his remaining hand away from the charred stump. He stared down at his holy symbol, cool and unblemished atop the pile of half-charred, half-rotted meat that was the remains of his arm. The silver medallion gleamed dully in the leaden light that found its way listlessly through the clouds. The raised emblem was bright and soft, hard edges worn bright and soft after more than a decade of daily prayers and incidental exorcisms. He remembered how it had burned his finger when he had touched its face, and how it had raised blackened smoke from fiery pain when he prayed with it, begging for his god.

The candle symbol raised in relief on the center was a symbol, echoed on his stole, was a representation of the light and love Viaeris offered all. Saint or sinner, woman or man, young or old - all were welcome as long as the were sincere in repentance and in word and deed, and kept to his precepts as best each were able. A light to your path, a way in the dark - that was what Viaeris offered his flock, the promise of the candle.

He reached for it with his remaining hand, helpless to resist that promise of hope. He reached for it craving that sense of purpose, of direction, that the candle had granted him all his life. As his fingers closed around the circle, smoke once again rose from fingers that burned wherever they made contact with the metal. He closed dry eyes and cradled the symbol to his chest, ignoring the pain and smoke in his hands. He'd worn the symbol for the vast majority of his life, and the weight on his chest had always been a soothing reminder of his duties.

Now it itched, sending tingles of almost-pain through his sternum even through the layers of robes. A slight pain, one that he could not - _would_ not - ignore, a constant reminder of what had been taken from him. A small part of him wanted to simply tear the symbol off and fling it into the pond on whose shores he knelt, to run, find flesh to rend and tear, but he was used to turning aside temptations and he would not fail now.

Pursing his lips, he hung the symbol once more over his neck. This was a test of his faith, of his fortitude, and he would not fail. He _refused_ to fail.

A familiar scream floated on the breeze, and a whiff of something that stank worse than orc. Perf, very likely in trouble again. Clutching the stump his arm, he turned towards the noise and walked stiffly away. He would not fall from grace; he would endure, and he would see the Chosen One rise up against the Evil Kings. _And_ , he consoled himself, _probably get murdered horribly,_ which would at least make them somewhat even.

It was a long walk.


End file.
